


Muse

by thefoxwoman



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Artists, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, Gay Panic, Gay Sex, LGBTQ Themes, Lesbians, Masturbation, Muses, One Shot, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 00:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29480388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefoxwoman/pseuds/thefoxwoman
Summary: Compulsory heterosexuality sucks. Leah moves to the valley to learn about the female form.(My take on the whole farmer is Leah's muse trope)
Relationships: Leah/Female Player (Stardew Valley)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61





	Muse

Leah never paid much attention to anatomy classes. Drawing the human form was something she simply wasn’t interested in. She wanted abstract expression to be her focus, concerning herself with the purest of emotions begging to be released. In her practice, she shied away from life drawing classes, and pursued surrealism and abstract coursework. She looked to natural forms as her muse. 

It was easier that way. 

There were…some things about herself that she wasn’t sure she was ready to explore. So she painted them, or carved them, or molded them out of clay. Twisting, gnarling forms, undulating with passion and desire. Her works were critiqued as “sensual in natural form” and were, for the most part, well received. Audiences believed them to be inspired by her boyfriend, Kel, who in turn, puffed up like a peacock when it was mentioned. 

But the deeper she engrossed herself in her work, the more detached she felt from Kel. He would push her against the wall of their shared apartment, jamming his tongue down her throat, believing himself to be the source of her passion. And for a while, she believed that too. Or made herself to believe it. 

Things change, people change. And it was on the evening that Kel proposed that Leah realized, it wasn’t Kel that was her muse. It was a waitress, pouring champagne, long fingers clutching the stem of her glass, deep eyes and luscious hair. It was her art teacher from university, knowledge pouring from her soul, draped in long swishing clothes. It was a girl who walked ahead of her one time on a street, legs clad in a knit skirt forming a heart shape as Leah’s eyes travelled up subconsciously. 

Then, it was the fitting room attendant, carefully running her fingers to move Leah’s hair as she showed her what her wedding dress would look like. A shiver traced down her back, as she carefully morphed her expression in the mirror into something neutral.

Leah sat with that feeling in front of a canvas. What abstract form would this take? What stroke of her brush could trace the outlines of this? Kel had tried to pry her away from it, but she refused to move which ended in his storming off and slamming the door. 

He was so upset when she told him that she needed to leave to pursue her art. His eyes were clouded with rage and betrayal. But Leah was numb. She boarded the train to the Valley with a duffle bag of her art supplies, eager to pursue this form, not yet aware of what it meant. 

For once, she was completely alone. Her cozy cottage in Pelican Town was far away from most of the residents. And she had never lived somewhere so rural. At night, the crickets chirp and the owls hoot. She hears birds in the morning and feels the breeze that encircles her home like a gauzy shawl. She lives there for a full year, just listening and watching nature take its course. 

It’s an early morning when she meets the new girl in town. It’s nice to have someone new, she thinks. This new girl is planning on restarting her grandfather’s farm. And Leah is drawn to that kind of ambition. So when the new girl is asking around for foraging tips in the forest, Leah is excited to show her where to find spring onions, horseradish and dandelions. 

When the farmer plunges her hands into the dirt to dig up an onion, Leah notices that her hands are calloused. Her fingers curl up, earth gathers under her fingernails and she pulls up the bulb. It’s dripping bits of dirt, and the farmer carefully brushes her fingers through its roots, as if she’s combing through hair. A feeling begins to stir in Leah’s stomach, and her scalp begins to long for calloused fingers running through her hair. 

Later that night, she swishes paint on her canvas with enthusiasm for the first time since she’s moved to the valley. She mixes her own concoction of the earth pigments into her paints and splatters it on the canvas the way it looked when the farmer ripped the plant from the ground. 

She dreams at night of that feeling. She imagines a scent of moist earth so strongly that her small cabin fades away to a cave. She feels a warmth spreading between her legs. And she begins to run her fingers through her hair. Softly and slowly at first. Then she makes a fist with her hair in her hands and tugs sharply. The pleasure that courses from her vulva to her breastbone is unexpected. 

The next time she runs into the farmer, she is at the store. Leah catches a glimpse of strong abdomen muscles, as the farmer is reaching up to the top shelf. The muscles scrunch down as the farmer lands back on her full feet, hands clutching a bottle of olive oil swirling around. Her hair is short and curly, and it's making a wild show on this day. She twists around to see Leah and grins at her. After a short greeting, she is making her way to the cash register, and Leah is watching as her slightly baggy pants fall on her hips, her slightly too short tank top riding up so that a pair of back dimples is revealed. 

Leah accidentally dumps too much olive oil on her salad that night. Then she paints swirls, globs of curly brunette hair. A peak of skin, a small indentation of a bellybutton. 

Tonight, she’s ready to feel that pleasure again. She takes a pearl of jojoba oil and runs it over her stomach. She follows every curve of her torso, reaching just shy of her breasts and tickling her pelvis, just above her groin. She imagines hands that are calloused are moving across her body. They massage her hips, and squeeze at her ribcage. She wonders how curly hair would feel between her fingers, between her legs. 

The farmer is really good at fishing. Leah is sitting on the beach, sketchpad in hand idly drawing a soft wave. And the farmer girl is a few feet away, standing on the dock casting her line into the water. Leah watches as her arms raise over her head, body twisting in anticipation, then shooting forward as a thin line reaches out over the ocean. The farmer favors balance on her left foot, her right foot lifting a little as the movement is conducted. Then she reels in her catch, pushing weight from her left foot to her right foot. Her hips are coordinated in the dance, rolling backward and forward as she casts the line over and over again. 

Leah is sipping a dry wine that evening, glass in one hand, brush in the other. She takes the sketches from the beach, all curved lines and dynamic movements and adds them to the canvas. They are done in watercolor and ink. The ink is so dark, it looks like its bleeding. She’s running her paintbrush over the same areas, swishing it so that the strokes looks like a dance. 

That is the first night that Leah thinks about the weight of slender hips against hers. Of pelvises grinding against each other. And her hand strays downward, her body rocking in its own rhythmic dance as she envisions hands clutching her, rocking her. She is moaning into the night, her own cries adding to the song of the woodland creatures just outside her doorstep. 

There’s a knock at her door, unexpectedly. No one ever really visits Leah, she prefers to hang in town on her own terms. Her boundaries seem to have sent the message, so that even Elliot asks for permission to come over. She doesn’t try to clean up, she expects the visitor to want to hang outside anyways. But the visitor is the object of her most recent dreams, standing there with her curly hair and a basket of goods. 

“I’ve come with a special gift for you.” The farmer says, “Can I set it down inside?” 

And Leah is widening her door open as the farmer strides in and places a basket on her small kitchen table. She is explaining what she brought but Leah is in a daze. 

“So I’ve heard around town that you like goat cheese, and I also figured the other night I’d try my hand at baking too since the poppies this year had a lot of seeds, and…is that me?” 

She’s looking at Leah’s painting now, a cluster of different media splashed onto the canvas in the form of the farmer herself. Leah feels heat rush to her face in embarrassment. 

“Er, yes, I…” she trails off, not sure what to say. Leah’s not known to be bold, but she’s never felt this shy. 

But the farmer is already up and taking a closer look at it. Her eyes are roaming over the painting, and her facial expression is curious. 

“It’s, not exactly finished yet.” Leah adds quickly, “I wanted to gift you a welcome present for helping the town out.” 

The farmer reaches as if to touch the painting. “My face isn’t yet done.” 

“No, I’m um…having a little trouble with your…lips.” 

The farmer turns to Leah, who at this point is sure her face is bright red. She’s not sure how to act, and she feels like a child caught doing something dirty. But the farmer is moving closer, her eyes boring into Leah’s. She notices that the farmer has rich brown eyes, that remind her of a doe she came across one time in the forest. She takes Leah’s hand, her thumb running circles over her palm. Leah feels her breath catch. And lets the farmer guide her hand to her face, tracing over her lips. Leah follows her cupid’s bow, and swipes her thumb under the farmer’s bottom lip. It’s pure silence as the two women stare into each other’s eyes. 

Then, Leah breaks it. She runs her hand behind the farmer’s neck, feeling the soft curly tresses, and brings her even closer. The farmer has slowly moved her arms to encircle Leah’s waist, her face tilted forward. It feels like the breaking of a dam when Leah kisses her. As if she’s waited for permission to do this her whole life. 

Later, Leah is treated to the most important anatomy lesson she’s ever taken. She runs her hands along the smooth and sharp contours of the farmer’s body. She plays with the curls on her head and in between her legs. And the farmer in turn is teaching her things that she didn’t know needed to be taught. Like the way her nipples harden when the farmer flicks her tongue over them. Or the way pleasure can shoot from her toes to her eyebrows, her senses going fuzzy as the farmer fucks her, hand moving fast, those calloused fingers deep inside her. 

She is laying on the bed, and the woman on top of her is tracing her freckles across her nose. 

“Think you’ll finish it tonight?” the farmer asks her. 

Leah is still catching her breath after the last round, as she nods. But what form is going to finish first is up for debate.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day y'all


End file.
